


The Inn Boy

by wheel_pen



Series: Loose Gems [33]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M, Slavery, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-18
Updated: 2016-03-18
Packaged: 2018-05-27 11:38:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6283051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A traveling nobleman takes a fancy to a slave boy working at an inn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Inn Boy

**Author's Note:**

> The bad words are censored; that’s just how I do things.   
> Inherent in slavery and other forms of subjugation are dubious consent, unhealthy relationships, and violence.  
> I hope you enjoy this original work, which was inspired by many different stories. 
> 
> Visual reference:  
> Rafal--Liam Neeson  
> The boy--Jonathan Rhys Meyers

The air was a little drier than Rafal preferred, but he sat in the outdoor courtyard anyway, where the smell of the patrons could dissipate in the slight breeze. His table was in a more secluded nook, shielded from the sun by a giant ivy vine crawling up a rickety trellis to the roof, but it still afforded him a view of the yard. Rafal didn’t really expect any trouble in this tiny, out of the way inn, but it never hurt to be prepared.

He sipped his cool ale slowly as he waited for his lunch to arrive. The atmosphere would have been very pleasant, were it not for the raucous laughter from a trio of grubby, bearded travelers in the corner. Rafal judged them to be peddlers, if not anything less honest. Even in the open air he could tell they didn’t count bathing as a high priority. Rafal already had a grudge against them, having been awakened late the night before by their drunken arrival.

Rafal’s attention was more pleasantly diverted when the boy appeared in the kitchen doorway, loaded down with platters of food. Despite their encounter on Rafal’s first night at the inn, there was still something very enticing about the way his slender body moved, the way his hot, dark eyes burned even in daylight, the way his delicate, almost feminine features composed themselves into something resembling a smile as he served Rafal first, expertly sliding his platter of roasted chicken onto the tabletop. “Can I get you anything else, milord?” he asked earnestly, as if he were indeed concerned that Rafal’s needs were met.

“Not right now,” Rafal replied, crisply as befitting his station, but not coldly.

The boy bowed quickly, then straightened his shoulders and turned towards the group of three whose food he was also bearing. He ducked suddenly behind another ivy trellis and, thinking he was unobserved, gave each bowl of stew a healthy glob of spit. Rafal forced himself not to smirk in amusement and quickly looked down at his meal when the boy checked once more in his direction. It seemed that Rafal was not the only one who had come to dislike the three men.

With a false smile on his lips the boy continued to their table and carefully set each bowl down in front of its patron. “Will there be anything else, sirs?” he inquired neutrally, already backing away a bit.

“Yeah,” snorted one of the men, “I think we’ll have one of them appetizers first!” With a surprising quickness his fat fist reached out and grabbed the boy’s arm, dragging him onto his lap. The boy knew better than to resist and instead tried to smile as the man pawed him roughly—and not for the first time, Rafal realized, when the man gloated, “You still as tight as you were last night, boy?”

Rafal’s teeth gritted in irritation, which surprised him. So he’d found the boy to be satisfying once, and he intended to have him again before he left—why should he care what happened to him in between?

The boy’s defiant streak was a little too strong for his own good and Rafal saw a contemptuous sneer pass his features as the man groped at him. It only lasted for an instant, but unfortunately the man’s companions saw it as well and began guffawing loudly. When he realized why they were mocking him, the dirty peddler was furious and smacked the boy across the face. Rafal winced with the force of the blow. The boy’s head snapped back with his violet eyes blazing dangerously before he could smother them.

“Don’t you look at me that way, you little—“ shouted the man, enraged. He shoved the boy off his lap and bent him over the table, sending the bowls of stew flying.

“Watch it!” one of the others complained, but the first man shrugged him off.

“Forget that,” he snapped, smiling coldly as he stood behind the boy and started to loosen his own belt buckle. “We’re gonna have dessert first! Hold ‘im.”

“No, please, sir,” the boy began, trying to sound cheerful as the other two men pinned his arms to the table. “There’s no need for that. I wouldn’t struggle, not with you, sir.”

The man laughed harshly and squeezed the boy’s backside hard enough to make him gasp. “I like it when you struggle, boy,” he replied nastily, reach around to the front of the boy’s trousers, and the trapped quarry began squirming in earnest, trying to get some give from his captors.

Suddenly a large shadow blotted out the sunlight at their table and a powerful arm ripped the boy from the suddenly slack restraints. “Boy, how many orders do you get a day in this one-horse dump, and you can’t even get mine right?” Rafal demanded angrily, setting the boy on his feet and then nearly shaking him off them.

“S-sir?” the boy stammered in confused relief, blinking up at him with wide eyes.

“I ordered the beef and you brought me the chicken!” Rafal continued. “Apparently you can’t tell the difference between cow and fowl!” Taking firm hold of his shoulder, Rafal started dragging the stumbling boy towards the barn. “Let me remind you what they are!”

“Hey!” yelled one of the men, slowly realizing that his toy was being taken away. “We was using him! Who you think you are, mister?”

Rafal whirled around, the boy dangling from his hand like a fish on a line, and fixed the man with all the icy hauteur he could muster, enough to freeze the peddler in place. “I think I am Lord Rafal of Marcely, and now _I_ am using this boy! Do you have a problem with that?”

“N-no, sir,” the man replied, dropping back into his chair, then popping up again uncertainly. “No problem. Sir.”

“Good.” With that Rafal spun back towards the barn and marched into it, the boy stumbling after him.

As soon as they had rounded a corner Rafal let the lad go and crossed his arms exasperatedly while the brunette sagged against a stall, catching his breath. As soon as he saw that Rafal was waiting for him, he dropped to his knees before the older man and gazed up at him gratefully.

“Thank you so very much, sir,” he panted, a bit desperately. “How can I repay you for your gracious kindness?”

“It wasn’t kindness,” Rafal replied gruffly, wondering to himself just exactly _what_ it was.

“No, of course not, sir,” the boy agreed, dropping his gaze. He sounded a little disappointed.

Rafal tilted his chin back up to him and ran his thumb lightly over his cheek, which was starting to redden from the slap he’d received. “Just try to stay out of trouble,” Rafal advised, trying to sound businesslike. “I expect to see you tonight and I _don’t_ want you _looking_ like you’ve been through every other guest already. Even if you have,” he added a bit meanly, and then chided himself.

“Yes, sir,” the boy replied, still subdued.

Rafal released him. “Go on.”

With a nod, the boy scrambled to his feet and hurried back to his duties, taking care to avoid the courtyard—at least for the moment. Rafal sighed and frowned, trying to figure out what exactly had gotten into him—the boy was attractive, yes, but no more so than any incredibly attractive kitchen boy/prostitute who had dangerous violet eyes and high cheekbones and full lips and—

Rafal rolled his eyes as his mind veered decidedly off track. He didn’t like to see people tortured for fun, he judged firmly. He would have done the same if the boy had been a horse or a dog. Somewhat satisfied with his reasoning, Rafal turned and went back to his lunch, thoroughly anticipating the evening ahead.

**

Late that day Rafal stomped back to the inn in a foul mood. This town was barely a flea on the back of the country, yet the blacksmith was so overworked he hadn’t gotten around to reshoeing Rafal’s horse. Rafal snidely announced he could do it himself, for a shoe and the tools, and the smith insisted he couldn’t spare the tools and didn’t have enough shoes made up. The man seemed honest enough and looked genuinely busy, with the fire blazing nearly hot enough to melt the iron hanging from the ceiling, so Rafal decided to give him a little more time. After all, he was planning on spending the night here again anyway.

The serving girl who had given up trying to tempt him with her ample bosom brought his dinner quickly and without incident, but Rafal had been hoping to spot the boy somewhere. He’d been away from the inn all afternoon, unable to keep an eye on him—

Rafal stopped and shook his head in disgust. He really was getting old, and soft in the head, if he was worrying over a common kitchen slave. Hadn’t he had his fair share of lovely barmaids and stable boys, expensive courtesans, and of course unpaid lovers? And he’d rarely thought much about any of them once the pleasure of the moment had ended, so why should he want to reverse that habit now?

Before he could worry himself more about the matter, he saw the tall, thin proprietor wandering from table to table, flattering the more important guests and reminding the poorer ones to pay their bills on time. When he finally worked his way over to Rafal, the nobleman held up a hand to forestall his obsequious compliments and instead told him, “After dinner, I want a bath in my room. Have the boy I had last night bring it up.”

The innkeeper’s skinny, brownish lips curved into a greedy smile. “Of course, sir, just as you wish. Except,” he added more hesitantly, “I’m not sure that exact boy will be available. Would you care to choose another?”

Rafal halted his mug of ale on its path to his mouth and fixed the innkeeper with a cold stare. “He had _better_ be available, because I do _not_ care to choose another,” Rafal informed the man with a warning tone.

The innkeeper’s smile tightened and he began fidgeting his long fingers together. “I’m afraid that boy is otherwise engaged—he is with another… group of clients,” he explained smoothly. “He may not be available for some time.”

And when he _is_ available, Rafal thought darkly, he’ll be beaten black and blue. Rafal leaned back in his chair, tossed back his mug of ale, and adopted a more casual demeanor. “How much,” he began easily, “to guarantee that he will be available when I want him?”

A shrewd glint appeared in the tavern owner’s eye and Rafal countered it with a disinterested yawn. If the innkeeper thought he could squeeze money or influence out of Rafal’s attraction to his kitchen boy, he had underestimated his guest. “Well, sir, of course we try to be accommodating, but the boy is very pretty, isn’t he?”

Rafal shrugged. “He did a good job once. Why bother with someone new?”

“Well, he’s very popular among our guests, is what I mean,” the innkeeper continued. “The three peddlers from Erling are quite taken with him. And I’m already charging them four machats instead of the usual three for him, since there are after all three of them…” He sniffed contemptuously. “Although they managed to fit into one room, so I can only get ten machats out of them for that.” He shook his head. “But I’m sure they wouldn’t like to be interrupted, having paid their four machats to keep him all night.”

Rafal raised an eyebrow. It was barely sundown and the three peddlers were already planning on keeping the boy all night? Obviously the innkeeper didn’t think the boy needed time to actually sleep. Or to recuperate.

“That’s too bad,” he replied slowly, “because _I_ was planning on keeping him all night.” He leaned forward and narrowed his eyes at the innkeeper. “Six machats. You can refund part of their money and send the boy to my room. With a bath.”

“Nine machats,” the man countered quickly.

“Seven,” Rafal suggested, “including the bath.”

The innkeeper smiled his thin rope of a smile, calculating his profits. “The boy _and_ the bath will be waiting for you, when you have finished your supper, sir,” he agreed silkily, rubbing his hands together with barely concealed glee.

“Good,” Rafal replied, abruptly dismissing the man from his presence by turning back to his meal. The man glided away, leaving an oily stain in the air, and Rafal rolled his eyes. If a country innkeeper thought he was a foolish, easily swayed captive of lust, what did it matter? Let the man smirk at him—and do what Rafal wanted—and be sorry when he tried to take advantage of it later.

Rafal ate slowly, savoring the delicious beef stew. At least these people knew how to cook. Even when he had finished his meal he relaxed before the fire for a few minutes, giving the innkeeper plenty of time to fulfill his pledge. And, he added to himself, giving the boy time to compose himself.

When he finally couldn’t stand it anymore, he headed upstairs to his small room and found the door slightly ajar. Pushing it open a bit farther, he noted with approval the steaming tub of water before the fireplace. Glancing around, he finally saw the boy as well, scrutinizing himself in the warped looking glass.

Rafal pushed through the door quickly, as though he hadn’t paused to peek in first, and slammed it behind him. The boy jumped and spun around. He smiled when he saw Rafal, then winced as his split lip pulled. Rafal immediately went to examine the injury, cupping the boy’s chin lightly. There was still a slight bruise on his cheek from the smack he’d taken earlier, and Rafal did a double take at the red splotch just visible under his shirt collar—it looked like a bite mark.

Rafal sighed and gave the boy a severe look. “What did I tell you, boy?” he growled.

The boy hung his head. “I’m sorry, sir,” he answered contritely. “I tried to be careful like you said, I really did, but…” His voice trailed off and Rafal felt a bit guilty for being so hard on him—the boy’s life was difficult enough without Rafal’s expectations being imposed on him, considering he had little control over what other paying customers did to him.

“Well, it can’t be helped now,” Rafal decided, turning away and beginning to undress. The boy moved in quickly to help, folding the linen shirt neatly, pulling off his leather boots, and draping his trousers over the chair as Rafal sank into the hot water with a sigh.

He could sense the boy fidgeting, moving from spot to spot in the room. “Sir, what would you like me to do?” he finally asked.

“Sit down and be quiet,” the older man replied a bit sharply, and the boy immediately dropped into the chair just beyond Rafal’s left shoulder. Again Rafal regretted his tone—it was just that he hadn’t had a proper bath for days and he wanted to enjoy it. “What’s your name, boy?” he inquired, by way of apology.

There was a pause; Rafal supposed most people didn’t bother to ask. “My name is Apoloniusz,” the boy replied.

Rafal raised an eyebrow. “Apoloniusz? That’s an awfully fancy name for a kitchen boy.”

“Well, sir, you’re right about that,” the boy agreed easily, “it _is_ an awfully fancy name for a kitchen boy. But there’s a reason for that,” he added, as if entrusting Rafal with a great secret. “You see, sir, I’m really a lost prince.”

Rafal smiled in spite of himself and scooted down a bit farther in the water. “Oh really. Can you sew?”

“Yes, of course, sir.”

“Then look through my clothes and mend them while you sit there,” Rafal told him. “There’s a kit in my bag.”

For a few moments Rafal heard nothing but the rustling of clothing as Apoloniusz found the sewing kit in a saddle bag and gathered up a pile of shirts and trousers that had seen better days. As soon as he returned to a civilized land, Rafal promised himself, he was going to buy a whole new wardrobe. He relaxed every muscle in his body, letting them soak in the heat of the water—he was going to sit in a hot tub for a week when he got home, too.

Rafal was just about to doze off in the tub when the boy began to speak again. “Yes, it’s a tragic tale,” he sighed melodramatically. “An enemy army attacked the castle of my grandfather, the king, and my mother the princess had to spirit me away in the night.”

“Hmmm,” Rafal replied, forcing himself to sit up and start washing. No point in wasting good bath water by sleeping in it.

“But my mother didn’t dare turn to any nobles for help,” Apoloniusz continued earnestly, “because she didn’t know who had turned traitor. So we wandered about the countryside, her and me, begging for food and foraging in the woods like wild creatures.”

Rafal smiled a little as he soaped up. He hoped the boy really didn’t believe too much of his own prattle, but for some reason Rafal was mildly entertained by it.

“And then we came here.” Apoloniusz’s voice turned wistful. “My mother dragged us through a torrential rainstorm through sheer force of will, and then she collapsed on the doorstep, delivering me to the mercies of the innkeeper.” There was little bitterness in the boy’s tone, merely resignation.

Rafal wet his hair, thinking more than he wanted to about the boy’s outlandish tale. “How old were you?” he asked, against his better judgment.

“Three or four,” Apoloniusz answered easily.

“And you were a prince, hmmm?” Rafal repeated, teasing him just a little. “You remember that, do you?”

“Oh yes,” the boy assured him. “I remember golden dishes and fantastic tapestries, and rooms full of toys. And talking bears.”

“What?” Rafal asked, trying to get some soap from his eye. The boy quickly put down his sewing and handed the older man a towel, then knelt beside the tub and carefully rinsed his hair with the extra bucket of water.

“Oh, nothing, sir,” Apoloniusz told him finally. “Sometimes my memory just plays tricks on me.”


End file.
